it's like opening a fresh box of wooden colored pencils, or peeling back the cover of a brand-new book, or slipping on a pair of rubbery, unworn flip flops. no one knows me here; i can be anything. i can dive into my words and pull out the bits and pieces that i don't like and nonchalantly toss them into a rejection pile. i can paint myself tall and glamorous, far removed from the weary tedium of conventional life. i can pretend i am everything i am not, and no one would ever know.
but i am. i am, me. no matter where i go i seem to always patiently follow, aware that my illogical self will eventually accept me again. and so i start, only to end,
lia.
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